The Wonder Worker

by Susan Howatch

  “What a relief for her family! They’ve all assumed she’d wind up like her sister Arabella—a hopeless drug addict attended by a ghastly old gigolo.”

  “Well, tonight Venetia was just a scintillating nicotine addict attended by a ghastly old priest,” I snap, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer, but Nicholas intervenes with formidable smoothness; Nicholas says with that limpid, casual air he’s perfected over the years: “I’m glad all went well. That’s just the news I wanted to hear,” and I calm down again straight away.

  My hip’s not so good now. Dragging myself downstairs I find Alice guarding the oven which is keeping my dinner hot.

  “You don’t have to wait up whenever I’m late home,” I say, deciding that as she’s been at the Rectory for over two weeks she’ll be settled enough to survive a peremptory remark or two. “I can take the dinner out of the oven myself.”

  “I thought you might like a nice cup of tea if you were tired.”

  I’m so exhausted by the struggle not to behave like a Rottweiler with Rosalind that I’m not as grateful for this middle-class solicitude as I should be. “Forget the tea!” I bark, Rottweiler streak well to the fore. “Bring me the whisky bottle!” And I show her how to make a whisky-and-soda exactly as I like it.

  “Would you like a glass of wine with your meal?” asks Alice, a little shattered by my bared teeth but speaking up bravely, and I discover with relief that she knows all about wine as the result of that superior cookery course she took. Moreover she reveals she only offered me tea because she thought that was the correct behaviour when dealing with clergymen at unusual hours.

  What am I doing being canine and peremptory (i.e. rude) with this exemplary cook-housekeeper? Clearing my throat I ask her in my most mellifluous voice if she would be so very kind, please, as to bring me one of the half-bottles of St. Julien which I keep in a crate in the hall cupboard. Not only does she bring me this treat instantly; she uncorks it, decants it and fills my claret glass to exactly the right level.

  Nice, well-informed, splendidly accomplished young woman! We’re lucky to have her.

  As I tuck into the most excellent meal I wonder if “Nicky” has told Rosalind yet about the proposed cat.

  COMMENT: I must pray for Alice, doing so well in her new job.

  I must pray for Venetia, struggling so hard to begin a new life.

  I must pray for Francie, flailing around in that dead-awful marriage.

  I must pray for dead-awful Rosalind.

  I must pray for dead-awful me. Dear God, please help me conquer my Rottweiler streak. Amen.

  Monday, 17th October, 1988: I read with horror that some American female “priests” (mustn’t use the word “priestesses,” Nicholas says; that insults them by conjuring up images of paganism) have broken the law and conducted a Eucharist in an Anglican church. And I’m still reeling from last week’s news that the Shroud of Turin was a fake! Whatever next, I wonder, although in fact the Turin business doesn’t matter much in some ways; they could never have proved the shroud was Christ’s even if they’d succeeded in showing it was made in the first century. Far more depressing than the news about the Shroud was Mrs. Thatcher’s assertion at the Conservative Party Conference last Friday that she was “too young” to retire. They’re saying she’ll go on for ever now—or at least all the way through the nineties to the Millennium. How are we going to cope with the continuing sacrifice of the weakest members of our society on the altar of that obscene god, THE MARKET?

  I spend the day sunk in gloom but perk up when I pussyfoot at the Dorchester with Venetia. Needless to say I behave IMPECCABLY, and in the taxi home afterwards I sing “Lili Marlene.” Funny how those old war-time songs live on in the memory.

  On my arrival home I find Alice is waiting in the kitchen to introduce me to a small striped object which mews: the new kitten. Trust Nicholas to get his own way and grab a tabby. It’s to be called James because Alice believes simple, unpretentious names make life easier for the owners. (Apparently polysyllabic “Orlando” proved tiresome when summoning the animal for meals.) At least Alice got her way about the name. Nicholas would have called it Walsingham or Canterbury or something stupid. His earlier cats were all called after a town steeped in ecclesiastical connections.

  “Very nice,” I say, stroking the kitten with my forefinger. “Is he house-trained?”

  “Almost.”

  “Obviously a very superior animal.”

  Alice mixes me a perfect whisky-and-soda. She produces a portion of shepherd’s pie which I can only describe as celestial. She pours me a glass of claret. I feel cosseted, pampered and in consequence extremely benign.

  Maybe God’s converted me from a Rottweiler into one of those smiling golden Labradors.

  COMMENT: I don’t think I’d better see the hand of God in a shepherd’s pie which called me to gluttony. My powers of discernment are obviously up the creek. When am I going to find a new spiritual director?

  Thursday, 20th October, 1988: I take time off to call on a couple of spiritual directors, but they’re no good; they’d never survive me. Then I call on my orthopaedic man in Harley Street. He says he’ll book me into one of those very expensive private hospitals. All right, I know I shouldn’t be taking the private-medicine route, but I’m a paid-up member of BUPA and I’m too old for the alternative. No doubt Our Lord Jesus Christ would disapprove of this spoilt-rich behaviour, but he never had to face an operation on the National Health—and surely Our Lord would have had compassion for an old man who’s scared stiff of pegging out on the operating table before he’s had the chance to pursue his impeccable pussyfooting to an entirely respectable conclusion? When I’m asked about a date for the operation I say firmly: “As soon as possible,” but my heart sinks when the fourth of November is suggested. I didn’t think it would be that soon.

  I’ve been so bound up lately with spiritual directors, Venetia and the hip that I’ve neglected Stacy, but at home that evening my anxiety about him is renewed when he says to Nicholas: “By the way, is it okay if I ask Alice out? I think she’d be a very acceptable girlfriend for a priest.”

  I don’t like the way he puts this. It’s as if he’s a casting director selecting an actress for an important role in a film. It’s also very often the case that men uncertain of their sexuality try their luck with a plain woman whom they calculate won’t either let them down or behave in any way which is remotely threatening.

  Nicholas says kindly but firmly: “No, I’m afraid that won’t do, Stacy. I’m sorry, but if you date Alice and things don’t work out that could lead to a difficult atmosphere here. It’s very important, you see, when several unrelated people are living under one roof, that certain distances are preserved and certain boundaries never breached. One person with emotional problems can be a loose cannon, wrecking the equilibrium of the community.”

  This puts the well-known problem in unobjectionable—i.e. namby-pamby—modern language but I’d still prefer to say: “It’s the Devil getting in and causing havoc.” Doesn’t that vivid metaphor convey more of the potential danger and destruction than the aseptic language Nicholas has chosen to use?

  As I silently ask myself this question Nicholas is mentioning to Stacy the names of two young women who help part-time at the church, and Stacy’s obviously grateful for the tip.

  “I regard this as incontrovertible proof,” pronounces Nicholas after Stacy’s clattered away upstairs to the curate’s flat, “that he’s genuinely keen to find a steady girlfriend.”

  I just grunt, but when Nicholas starts spouting some fashionable modern guff about sexuality being a complex spectrum, I find I have to interrupt. “My dear Nicholas,” I say testily, “the only reason why Stacy’s playing the heterosexual card is because he’s so keen to please you.”

  But Nicholas refuses to accept this. “That can’t be right,” he says obstinately. “He knows I’d affirm him even if he was primarily homosexual in orientation—he knows I’d never want him to forfeit
his integrity by denying any part of his true self.”

  “Not so easy to expose the true self sometimes, though, is it? Not if you’re a homosexual and certainly not if you’re a homosexual priest. Easier to play the straight card and opt for the double-life.”

  “But Stacy’s not doing that! He’s a man with a homosexual past who’s now realised the truth lies in claiming his heterosexuality!”

  “Stacy’s a mess. And talking of messes …” I raise the subject of Francie.

  Mulling over our recent conversations with her, we discover they’re identical. Again, confidentiality isn’t an issue because Francie’s given us carte blanche to discuss her case with each other, but this time I suddenly hear myself say: “There’s something about this business with Francie that doesn’t add up.”

  Nicholas is riveted. He knows a psychic twinge when he hears one, although we both know enough about psychic twinges to be very wary of them. I can see him thinking: he could be off his rocker. But he could be right.

  “Go on with that,” he commands, sitting bolt upright on his chair.

  “Well, for a start, just why is she confiding in both of us? I’d say that was atypical. Surely in most cases the abused woman is at first very reluctant to speak of the abuse at all and then inclined to confide only in one person—who’s usually female?”

  “Generalisations can be misleading. Surely the point here is that Francie’s worked alongside us both for years and trusts us completely? In these particular circumstances—”

  “But there’s something else.” By this time my elderly brain’s clanking away like a steam engine as I try to correlate my psychic twinge with my rational thought processes. “Her story never develops, does it? It arrived fully-fledged and now it just goes on and on in the same groove.”

  “That could merely be because abusive relationships do tend to go round and round in the same circle.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What seems odd to me,” says Nicholas unexpectedly, “is that having brought herself to confide in us—having taken the major step towards getting help—she consistently refuses all our helpful suggestions. I really did think that the idea of a women’s group—”

  But by this time I’m barely listening. My brain’s now banging along at maximum speed. “We never see the violence, do we?” I interrupt. “She always claims that Harry, being a crafty middle-class thug, only hits her where it doesn’t show. But supposing—”

  “Supposing she’s disturbed, much more disturbed than we’ve ever realised, and this report of the violent husband is a fiction designed to win our attention?”

  We stare at each other. This is a deeply unpleasant theory. Quite apart from the fact that we’re both fond of Francie, who’s a good woman in her own way, she’s our senior Befriender, someone who’s done sterling work for us during the past four years. It’s an important job, dealing all the time with troubled people. If she’s now seriously troubled herself, she’s going to be disabled and that would be bad news for the Healing Centre.

  I say sardonically, trying to ease the tension with a touch of black humour: “Do I hear the Devil knocking at the door?” but the moment the words are out of my mouth I feel that joking about the Devil is hardly the best of ideas in such circumstances.

  Meanwhile Nicholas is saying stupefied: “I just can’t believe Francie would go clean over the top.”

  “I concede there’s no concrete proof, but all we’ve got to do is wait a little longer. Fantasists always trip up in the end.”

  “Yes, but …” Nicholas is still grappling with his disbelief. “What’s her motive?” he demands at last. “She could have our full attention at any time without resorting to fantasy!”

  “Well, obviously she’s after a different kind of attention and equally obviously it must be you she’s gunning for. Up till this moment I’ve always thought that if her hero-worship was out of control she’d be confiding in you alone, but now I see she’s much cleverer than I’d anticipated and she’s using me as a smokescreen.”

  “Wait a minute!” says Nicholas sharply. “Are you sure you’re not demonising her, projecting onto Francie doubts and suspicions which in fact belong elsewhere?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Well, that’s what it’s beginning to sound like to me, although I promise you I’ll keep an open mind. Incidentally, talking of your problems with women, have you found a new spiritual director yet?”

  I have to admit I haven’t.

  Nicholas sighs, wishing I’d get my act together.

  The conversation closes.

  COMMENT: It occurs to me that we could have quite a demonic brew simmering at St. Benet’s. If Francie’s off her rocker and Stacy’s going at ninety miles an hour down the wrong sexual street, there could be two separate disasters capable of engulfing us in scandal. Or am I just being a trifle unhinged now that the hip replacement’s finally on the agenda and I’m having nightmares about the surgeon’s saw?

  I’ve sworn Nicholas, Alice and Stacy to secrecy about the operation. I don’t want loads of visitors when I’m in hospital; I want no witnesses to the fact that after the carve-up I’m sure to feel a mess and look like a nonagenarian. Ah, vanity, vanity …

  I shall miss Alice’s cooking while I’m away. Her Lancashire hotpot tonight was a masterpiece, and I shall pray that some nice young man asks her out very soon. Should I try to find out why she doesn’t go to church with us during the week? No. Most people don’t go to church during the week and she’s perfectly entitled to abstain. Should I try to find out why she doesn’t go to church on Sundays? No. Maybe she’s too shy to come to the eight o’clock mass I hold for a few members of the prayer-group on Sunday morning when the church is officially closed, and if I draw attention to her absence she’ll feel shyer than ever. Anyway, how do I know what she gets up to on Sundays during those times when she’s not at the Rectory? She might trundle off to St. Paul’s Cathedral where she’d feel anonymous and comfortable. No, I must abstain from cross-questioning her and leave her to emerge from her great-aunt’s brainwashing in whatever way suits her best.

  Nicholas has explained to me that Alice was very much influenced by this great-aunt, a pig-headed old girl who thought churchgoing was rubbish but would have fought to the death to preserve the hatch-match-and-dispatch routines of the Church as Great British Tribal Rites. “Folk religion,” as it’s been called, may be absurdly quaint, but one mustn’t underestimate its ability to bring Christianity into the hearts of ordinary people. Alice has a Christian background. One day she may care to explore it further. Whether she does or not is up to God, working either through us or in spite of us, and I must leave the matter in his hands. Besides, the best evangelism is a Christian life well lived, not a tactless nagging or unimaginative ranting at every unbeliever in sight.

  Thinking of Alice reminds me that I forgot to check the refrigerator before I retired to my room tonight. I’ve discovered that her weakness is rum raisin ice cream, a most delicious luxury which she has to keep in the main kitchen because the refrigerator in the hellhole’s kitchenette is too small to accommodate anything in the freezer compartment except ice-cubes. By checking the freezer compartment of the main kitchen’s refrigerator I can see how much bingeing she does. There was a lot going on at first, but the consumption’s declined. Only six tubs a week now. Neither Nicholas nor I ever make any comment, and Alice never asks us for any help in fighting this dis-ease which must give her so much grief and discomfort, but of course we pray for her. I light a candle too after every healing service, and one day, I firmly believe, she’s going to start to get thin …

  Monday, 24th October, 1988: Venetia and I pussyfoot at the Berkeley. Haven’t been there before, although of course I knew the old Berkeley. I remember a very steamy frolic there during the war.

  Venetia talks about this man in her past, the man who messed her up to such a degree that she ricocheted into marriage with the wrong husband. What a mixed-up, pie-eyed, self-ce
ntred bastard this heart-breaker of hers must have been! But was he actually any more mixed-up, pie-eyed and self-centred than I was when I messed up Diana? Maybe not, but he was sixty-one years old and married and a priest, just as her husband was, and he should have known better.

  Dear God, how easy that last sentence was to write! Yet who knows what I may be tempted to get up to when I’m sixty-seven, single and sporting a new hip?

  My behaviour with Venetia is IMPECCABLE but I take a taxi home in dead silence.

  Alice serves up toad-in-the-hole followed by jam roly-poly. I can’t describe the sheer sensual thrill of eating such perfectly cooked English classics. I’m having a hard time trying to suppress all thought of the coming butchery but Alice’s food calms me down.

  James the kitten is now fully house-trained. Nicholas is supervising his education in the art of being a perfectly behaved cat. I might have known Nicholas would never be able to stay away from that animal. I ask him if he’s told Rosalind yet that there’s a cat on the premises, but he says vaguely that he hasn’t told her because he didn’t think she’d be interested.

  Coward.

  COMMENT: I’m the coward, secretly quivering about this blank-blank operation! And to think I won all those medals in the war! I must pull myself together—and I must stop worrying that I’ll become a sex-maniac as soon as my hip’s replaced.

  Why haven’t I succeeded in finding another spiritual director? Am I setting my sights much too high? Or is my desire for a new spiritual director in fact much too low?

  I wish Great-Uncle Cuthbert were here to shake me till my teeth rattled …

  Friday, 28th October, 1988: I’ve decided to stop looking for a new spiritual director until after my operation. This is because I’m in such a state now about the carve-up that all I want to do is savour what could be the last few days of my life.

  I start the savouring by pussyfooting with Venetia at one of those new places, a Canadian high-rise called The Inn on the Park. Very stylish in that modern, transatlantic way which always looks so peculiar in England. The pussyfoots are what the Americans call “jumbo.” Venetia and I agree they’re magnificent.